


Neon

by IntravenousDollhouse



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Chubstuck, Dream Bubbles, Forced Feeding, Gen, Horror Fiction, Kink Fiction, M/M, Stuffing, Weight-gain, expansion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 01:18:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/425335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntravenousDollhouse/pseuds/IntravenousDollhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Equius wanders through a corrupt mind-scape in his afterlife; searching for an exit.  He soon discovers this world is not empty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neon

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Uhhh, trigger warning, I suppose? (I just vaguely figured out what that means), forced-feeding (sorta), one very stuffed belly, extreme weight gain (descriptive), and a mildly creepy setting. If you're not into that, turn back now.

***

 

Your entire body is draped in a cold mess of sparkling dark-stars. The air smells like cotton candy, greasy meat, and synthetic hair -- the type that composes cheap costume wigs. You’re chasing the scent of that cotton candy, but it doesn’t seem to be leading you to a booth. Strange. 

It’s a dream. Has to be. 

You are dead, after all.

“This is...some sort of carnival?”

You absolutely cannot stand the term ‘carnival,’ as it is so similar to ‘carnal.’ The very last ‘carnal’ relation you remember ended in death. Now you’re stuck here. Losing your memory over and over again -- trapped in someone else’s absurd delusion.

The balloons floating overheard are all tasteless, neon colors. Then you spot a blue one. It’s a nice, rich shade, and it’s easy to follow since it appears to be headed the same direction as you, lingering far above your head like a beacon. The concept makes you uneasy, and you glance backward, imagining the sound of footsteps. Clown-shoes, perhaps.

A sugary siren coaxes you forward, and since turning around is steadily losing appeal, you give in.

There is a stair case built into a wall of what might have been brick, but better resembles hard-candy. You run a finger against one of the ‘bricks’ and a vibrant pink powder residue rubs off. It’s not often you indulge in sweets, as they are an obnoxious and immature source of energy, but everything in this -- amusement park -- has an unusually intoxicating scent. Your tongue touches the coated fingertip and soaks the powder up. It’s blasphemously sweet, and the flavor doesn’t go away, but instead spreads across the entire muscle and down the back of your throat.

It’s like nothing you’ve ever consumed -- candy or otherwise.

You need to calm down. It is true that something is horrifically wrong, but that is no excuse to lose your composure. Taking a deep breath only worsens your situation, as you’re positive you can taste the cotton candy lingering in the air. The stairs await you, but you’re nervous. They’re made of a brittle wood and each step is painted a different neon color. Everything is so bright, and colorful -- yet simultaneously dark and portentous.

The balloon floats above you, but it’s sinking down, down to your level. You can almost touch it. The attempt is made, but it darts out of your reach, drifting down the stairs and into the nebulous corridor. The symbolism is not lost on you. Though it’s likely a bad omen, you follow your personal balloon.

You’re relieved when the stairs do not crumble away. The ancient, petrified wood didn’t look at all sturdy to you when you began the descent, but evidently you were being paranoid.

“I shall remain calm. This is a dream, after all.” 

The words are comforting; but you’re speaking to yourself, and that’s a sure sign of insanity. An eternity of madness is not one to welcome.

“Perhaps things would be easier if I were in the company of another troll.” 

You’d even be happy to see one of the low-bloods at this point. In fact, you’re certain a low-blood would be preferable to a high-blood. The thought is heresy, but at least no one else heard it.

As if by some divine decree, you hear a voice echoing from further along the passageway. It’s a cruel form of serendipity. You don’t immediately trust it, though that’s exactly what you wish you could do.

It’s a voice tainted by desperation, and fear -- possibly pain. Every nerve you possess is piqued and prepared for the worst. Despite your absurd strength, there are beings that can hurt you -- the very existence of this little mind-circus is proof of that. The memory sends a spike of abhorrent arousal through your groin. 

You focus your attention back to the path in front of you. The corridor is long, and doesn’t branch off into any alternative directions; the only way to proceed is forward. There is a sickly swirl of mist ahead. Pink and green -- more neon. You’re reluctant to keep walking, but there is nowhere else to go but backward, up into the carnal carnival, into the unholy territory of clown-shoes. 

Only a few more steps. You can do it.

You’re inside the mist. Predictably, it tastes like candy, but might as well be poison.

The voice is louder. You think you recognize it, and the thought brings comfort because if you are correct, it does indeed belong to a low-blood.

A grinding noise scratches its way into the environment and infects everything with sudden calliope music. The sweat dripping down your spine is cold.

“I can no longer hear you!” You raise your voice to your comrade -- when did he become a comrade?

There is no reply. He likely cannot hear you either. You’re moving toward the spot you think his voice originated, and there he is. Trussed up like a bizarre sacrifice. His ankles and wrists are bound by candy shackles. Those, in turn, are attached to the wall. Behind him is a large hole -- its edges spattered with neon. Always neon.

He raises his head in distinct terror as you approach. You lift your hands in a slow, soothing manner. If possible, you would have liked to gently pap him; the dejection and fear you see painted across his features awakens your protective instincts. However, due to your strength, it is not possible. There is enough pain in the room already.

“Low-blood, you will calm yourself. I am not here to harm you.”

The traumatized troll -- Tavros Nitram -- allows his once firmly closed eyes to open. You suspect it is because he recognizes your voice. The two of you never truly bonded over anything, or even spoke to each other often. He is -- was -- beneath you.

“You cannot break free? It’s just...candy.”

There is a scar across his neck that you don’t remember him having.

“I-I can’t...n-no. It’s just...” His voice is horse -- hoarse, and he seems uncertain of what to say; that at least has not changed.

“Do you know how you got here?” You ask the question hesitantly, and when he shakes his head, disappointment drills a calculable tunnel through your gut.

“Alright. Since you require assistance, I will break through your cuffs.” He’s shaking his head briskly now, and there’s panic in his eyes. 

“Wait, uh, no! Please don’t, they’ll burn your hands!”

“Ridiculous. They do not appear to be hot.” 

You’re reaching your arm toward the left shackle. Fingertips ready. You’ll have to be careful to not shatter his wrists along with the candy, because it would be an all-too-easy mistake. He’s twisting against the bonds, making it difficult for you to focus. His insistence that the cuffs will burn your hands is odd, and certainly unnerving, but it’s likely inspired by intense despair and anxiety -- just an unhappy fabrication.

“Still yourself. I do not want to break you.”

The energy oozes out of his body and he slumps forward with taupe tears dribbling between clenched eyelids.

“No...no...” It’s become his mantra.

You flex your muscles in an attempt to calm your jangled senses. Sweat drenches your body, so you remove your shirt and dab as much of the liquid up as possible before tossing the used rag aside. The temperature seems to be rising. 

“Prepare yourself. I will attempt to be as gentle as possible.”

Your hand is on the one shackle, and just as quickly it jerks back against your conscious will.

It takes every bit of effort you have left to refrain from uttering countless obscenities. Your hand is on fire, or it might as well be. There is a bright red, cherry blister pulsing on one fingertip before it pops; spraying your shorts with scarlet, not blue.

“What is the meaning of this?” You murmur deliriously to yourself. 

Tavros raises his head again. The expression on his face is so deeply apologetic that you’re able to briefly focus on what he has to say as opposed to the agonizing throb of your seared limb.

“You have to, well, I think you’re supposed to...eat them.” His voice is quivering -- so easily pitiable. Your mind is cheating on Nepeta before you have the chance to prevent it.

Where is Nepeta?

No, no. You cannot think about your moirail. There’s nothing you could wish for more than her sympathetic embrace -- that sweet-tea smell. If you think about it too much, you’ll crumble.

“Eat them? How do you know? Won’t they burn my mouth?” 

“No, I mean, I really don’t think they will. You’re kind of supposed to eat the candy here. I am, uh, sure of that, at least.” His natural speech pattern defies what he is telling you. 

“Why?”

“Sorry, it’s just...that’s what the music says.”

“The calliope music?” You cannot hear any singing to accompany the demented instrument.

“You c-can’t hear it?” His irises betray such a sense of hopelessness that there is really nothing you can do but try to eat through the shackles.

“I will attempt to refrain from biting you.” It’s a concession -- a verbal pap.

You are not in the least bit comfortable with touching your tongue to the candy cuffs, but that’s exactly what you do. The relief you feel when you’re not burned is indescribable.

However, the candy is shifting against your muscle in an ominous way, squirming suddenly; as if it’s a living entity. Before you have the chance to pull away, it’s dissolving in your mouth -- every last bit of the first cuff is liquified and forcing itself down your throat like a worm. You are completely disarmed, and when the cuff is gone, you stagger backwards and fall to the ground ungracefully.

“What was...” You’re at a loss for words. 

There’s a gentle burn in the pit of your gut -- nothing like the burn on your hand. You’re quite certain that you’d be dead if the candy was doing to your innards what it did to your fingers.

“Are you okay!? E-Equius!” Tavros sounds frantic. Of course, from his perspective, what was supposed to be an inanimate food item just had its way with your mouth and then you collapsed.

“Yes. I am...fine.” You answer with a great amount of hesitance. 

The burn is shamefully pleasant -- but its origins are too gruesome for you to ignore. Your belly is straining against your belt, as though the substance is swelling inside you. The thought brings a portrait of your own gory demise to mind, and you try to assuage your rising hysteria.

Tavros is dangling at an awkward angle, as one arm is free, but both legs and the other wrist are still restrained. The position is putting too much pressure on his bound limbs, so you need to hurry. It’s too late to save yourself anyways -- you’ve already consumed some of the candy. Might as well finish what you started.

“Sorry...I’m, so sorry, I just...you’re the first person down here, and I thought that he’d be here, at some, uh, point...” He’s babbling, but you don’t tell him to stop. It’s better that you focus your oral skills toward consuming the other three shackles.

They each taste a little different, but share the same essential flavor. Cotton-candy. The redundant concept of a type of candy that is made to taste like a different type of candy agitates you profoundly.

“This world,” You sigh shakily, clutching your distended abdomen, “Is abominably nonsensical.”

Tavros is slumped against the hole, neon goo soaking into his already filthy shirt. You crawl toward him, wincing at how undignified the motion is. 

“Low-blood, are you still...alive?”

With what appears to be a concentrated effort, he faces you, slowly and nervously smiling as he does. “Thank you.” Then he notices your disfigured torso. “Y-you’re all...uh, swollen!”

“I’m just extremely full.”

“Was there, that...much candy?” He’s placing a hand on your gut tenderly, and you don’t have the energy to reject the contact.

“There was enough.” You’re not sure how to tell him the candy is obviously hexed, and that you’re likely going to die and leave him alone to fend for himself again, so you don’t.

“Nitram,” You’re not ready to call him by his first name just yet, “I don’t believe I can...move.”

His eyes are wide, pleading; so fearful. “No please, you have to, that is -- we can get out, now...so...” Hands are grasping your shoulders, and if there wasn’t a metaphorical planet between both of you, his face would be inappropriately close.

“I will try...to crawl more but...you have to look away. It will be...horribly improper.” You refuse to abandon all your morals despite the looming threat of death.

Crawling is made nearly impossible by your heightened discomfort. You’re surprised that your abdomen doesn’t brush the ground of the neon-slick tunnel Tavros is guiding you through. The fact that he knew to go through the hole behind him was suspicious until you contemplated the surrounding environment. It is likely this dream bubble -- or whatever it actually is -- was created specifically for him. 

“I think, it was...a fluke.” He mutters to you when you pose a certain question. There isn’t a trace of deceit in his voice. You trust him.

“This ‘fluke’ must be escapable somehow, despite the measures put in place.” You rub your enlarged organ carefully, already knowing that you will be incapable of helping him -- and yourself -- if there is more candy involved.

“I’ll take care of, well, whatever is next. Okay?” 

You’re certain -- despite the fact that you cannot see it -- that he has a gentle expression on his face. He was never a very confident or persuasive troll.

It’s easy to withhold your reply until you reach the next room. 

You’re back outside, and immediately you listen for squeaky footsteps. No clown-shoes. Splendid.

Tavros glances at your uninjured hand, as if he wants to grab it. Leading you through the maze of noisy rides and pestilential food-stands would be easier for him if you’d allow the contact. You nod slightly, giving him permission, and also signaling that you are prepared to relinquish any tension in that hand. If you become tense, his bones will be crushed. Like chalk. 

He’s guiding you again, with a dazed countenance. You’re being led away from the music, which is a relief, but towards a cluster of neon tents -- which is not at all comforting.

“It’s this one.” His voice is so quiet, but there is an uncharacteristic surety lacing it.

“The way out is through here?”

He nods and releases your hand. There is no need to communicate doubts or qualms. You’re just hoping there isn’t a clown in there.

Tavros draws the flap back -- heavy canvas painted in predictable neon shades of pink, green, yellow and blue. You follow him inside. The scent of food is overwhelming. It bathes you thickly, inspiring the need to vomit. Nothing seems to be rotting or in any way unpleasant, but your gut simply cannot entertain the thought of eating.

“It’s okay, this one is mine, right?” He looks thoroughly rattled. 

This amount of food would be inconceivable for one, two, or even twenty trolls to devour. If there was another way out -- one that didn’t involve consuming more hellish carnival fare -- you would readily accept it.

“Let’s look for an exit before you begin. This might not be what we’re thinking it is, after all.” 

It’s a weak sentiment. Tavros knows it just as well as you do, and yet he smiles and nods his assent.

You come across a stone circle laid flush into the floor, partially hidden beneath a rug. Tossing the rug aside reveals a painted message. It’s written in chocolate milk. You re-examine Tavros to locate any wound that might have been made recently before your arrival. The scars on his neck are thoroughly healed. No other wounds are visible.

He stares at the message, cheerlessly tracing the big round ‘o’ of the smilie face:

‘Better get started :o)’

Staring at the message isn’t helping the situation, but you can’t seem to stop. It’s like being in a momentary trance. This world was likely born from some repressed aspect of the high-blood’s psyche. Or Tavros.’ Possibly even yours, but you don’t like to think about that. It makes you sweat.

“I don’t really think this is his fault, exactly.”

“It likely has nothing to do with him. Or at least nothing that he is aware of.”

Your words satisfy him to an extent. He climbs to his feet unsteadily. In this bubble, or whatever it is, his natural legs are functional. You wonder if that’s just how it is for him in the afterlife.

There are plush love-seats near the enormous banquet-style table. You recline in one because it is more dignified than sitting on the floor. Standing is just too uncomfortable, and you’re convinced that an extended stay is inevitable. The waistband of your shorts is pressing into your taut flesh -- the belt having been discarded long ago. You undo the top button and relieve some of the tension. It almost feels nice; the heated weight of your rounded torso.

Tavros is staring at the table. It’s clear to you that he has no idea where to start. You examine the various platters of absurd rainbow-fare. It’s almost as if the food has its own hemospectrum. The cuisine is that of a high-blood quality feast rather than the anticipated circus junk. Well, aside from all the colors. That’s just unnatural, and you’re not sure what it means yet. Would Tavros’ gut expand to an extraordinary size, like yours? Or would the effects be different?

He looks at you helplessly, giving a brief shrug. You notice a large bowl of what looks like soup. Maybe it would be best to start off with something that isn’t solid? 

“Try that. I think it’s just a broth. It might be better for you to ease yourself into this.”

The expression he gives you is irrationally grateful, and it explicates his disquietude. You don’t know how you feel about his dependent behavior. He’s unpredictable -- switching between queer confidence and his typical insecurity.

“Uh, okay then. Here goes, nothing...” He lifts the dish. It’s larger than an average sized bowl, but it must not be unusually heavy.

You’re scrutinizing his abdomen as he steadily drinks the brew -- pacing himself. The majority of trolls would have a full gut simply from consuming the impressive volume of liquid so quickly. His is unaffected.

“Do you feel anything?” You ask him with a sense of urgency.

Tavros shakes his head in response; puzzled. “No, I...I don’t feel anything. Nothing, Equius, it’s -- like I didn’t even drink it.” 

Neither of you speak for a moment; you simply stare blankly at each other. There must be something amiss. It’s a trick, you’re sure of it.

“I will monitor you for changes. This is...highly peculiar.”

“Thanks, I’m, even more nervous now...I think.” 

The calliope music is far away, but your ears are perked and it’s suddenly too loud again. Your head is steadily filling with sweet-smoke. Focusing on Tavros is the only activity that prevents you from slipping into a deep repose. He hastily cleans a couple more platters. You’d be utterly astonished by his digestive capacity if the food was ordinary. 

“Is there, well, something different?” He’s standing in front of you, arms raised in a youthful, questioning gesture.

“No, I cannot detect -- wait.” There is indeed something different. It’s just barely noticeable.

He’s chubbier than he was when you’d stumbled upon him in shackles. Was it a trick of the light -- all the awful neon? Tavros has never been a particularly thin troll, especially after the incident with Vriska. It’s hard to stay fit when one is confined to a chair. He might have lost the extra weight if given the chance to utilize your robo-legs a bit longer. 

“Pardon my personal inquiry, but do your clothes feel...tighter?” You’re not sure if this question should be posed delicately. 

“Oh, is that a thing that I should be worrying about? That is, what do you mean exactly?” He’s bewildered, but you won’t let that dampen your resolve too much. You’ll have to spit it out.

“I think you’re gaining -- corpulence.” 

Is there any other way to phrase this? You’re fairly certain there isn’t. 

“C-corpulence? Oh, you mean...” He looks down at himself, and the position is reminiscent of dejection. You feel terrible.

“Uh, okay. I think that you might be right, actually.” 

A small roll of flesh is curving over the waistband of his jeans, and you wonder how you missed it before. 

Immediate concern plagues you once the food’s effects become obvious. You carefully rise from your seated position and return to the circular stone in the floor. If he gets too big, he will be prevented from entering the portal. It’s a ludicrous defense, but then again, you are trapped within a deranged carnival. This sort of logic is plausible when you admit its relation to a stunted, macabre clown.

Tavros glances between the stone and you. The realization does not take long to insert itself into his think-pan. 

“So the only way to, well, unlock the portal, is for me to...eat all this food?”

“Yet if you do, you’ll be unable to fit through it.”

The situation would be comedic if it wasn’t so bleak.

“I guess that’s kind of, alright. I mean, I can just sort of keep going, and...”

You’re not immediately sure of what he’s getting at, but he explains himself further.

“...Then you could get out of here, right?”

Ah.

The offer is selfless, and you appreciate exactly how difficult it must be for him to begin to accept unavoidable solitude and horror. He’s making a hasty decision. Why does he think you have somewhere better to be? When you first regained consciousness, your only focus was to escape the diseased circus. Now that you’re beginning to recall moments of your prior existence, you realize there is nowhere for you to go. Do you want to traverse dream bubbles? Find Nepeta, whose death was your fault? Aradia, who you never got the chance to say goodbye to? Are you even ready for them?

“Your offer is admirable, lowbl -- Nitram. However, in all honesty, I wouldn’t feel content with leaving this world in that manner.”

His expression is incontestably confused. Troll society simply does not work this way. As a member of a higher blood caste, you are meant to prioritize your escape. He isn’t your moirail, or even a very close friend. 

But you are dead; and so is he.

Societal constructs have been rendered irrelevant.

The swelling is beginning to subside, but you can still feel the torrid candy spiraling inside you. Everything will be fine.

“I will help you as much as I can.” You shake your head slightly, indicating that your assistance will not necessarily be adequate. 

“Well that might be okay, I guess. I think, that, if you start to get uncomfortable, you should probably stop, uh, right away.” His expression betrays both gratitude and guilt.

You finish a thorough examination of the circular stone; memorizing its approximate diameter and circumference. Once he reaches a certain size, you’ll take over. He accepts this proposal with a genuine, yet troubled, smile.

“I guess I’m just, kind of, nervous...” 

It makes sense for him to be, you think. His body has been subjected to sudden alterations constantly within the past sweep. It must take a toll; and now, he’s being forced to change again. Another imposition upon his physical freedom -- even after death.

You scan the table for a food item that is typically regarded as comforting and pass it his way. He laughs as you hand it to him.

“Eating this, specifically, makes me sort of feel like I’m about to watch one of Karkat’s romcoms.”

It’s hard to refrain from smiling at the thought. 

As he eats, you can see him visibly expanding. There is no bloating or tightness of flesh. Everything he consumes is immediately converted to fat. You help him remove his pants and shirt, before they begin to cut off his circulation. He’s left wearing nothing but his undershorts, which were composed of a stretchy material that is steadily being pushed past its limits.

The ruination of his body should disgust you. You’ve always valued physical strength, artistically displayed by hard bulges of layered muscle. There is no way you can credit Tavros’ size to brawn -- not by any stretch of the imagination. Not even when you squint. He’s all soft curves -- not feminine exactly; but youthful, and cute. You’re passing the various dishes to him now, as he’s just a bit too wide to sit in one of the plush chairs. 

“Try to periodically move your limbs. If you lose all the strength in them, it might be difficult to get through the portal.”

You have no idea how the circular stone works once it is unlocked. Does one simply need to jump through it? Would there be crawling involved -- like a sort of tunnel? The best option for Tavros would be the former, and you sincerely hope teleportation is all that’s involved.

His cheeks are flushed a charming copper when you return with a plate of something just as atrociously colorful as the rest of the food. You can tell he’s upset. Before you can stop yourself, you’re wrapping your arms around him. The food sits beside you, momentarily abandoned. It’s curious that he isn’t marbled with bruises caused by your overwhelming strength. Then you realize -- you’re not on Alternia, or the meteor. Tavros has his natural legs, after all; it’s not so hard to believe you might have the ability to better control your strength. 

You’re glad that the first being you’re able to wholly and fearlessly embrace is so incredibly soft. Hugging him is shamefully comforting -- and you didn’t quite realize how much you needed it.

Tavros is stunned by your sudden advance. You imagine he’s tense, but there would be no way of feeling his clenched muscles beneath the voluminous folds of fat. He’s so warm, and pillowy. You think that he might be making a shy attempt to hug you back, but he can’t quite reach past his flourishing belly.

You pull back to examine his sweet, chubby face. He looks significantly less upset.

“This is the last of it. For you, at least.”

He nods with evident relief. “I’m feeling sort of weird...but, it’s probably just, the uh...you know.” 

His undershorts split at some point, and you stare at the quivering flesh that spills out of the tear, entranced. There is about a third of the food left, and you waste no time in consuming it. The atmosphere is growing darker -- each neon object impaling your nerves with the grievous contrast. 

You feel yourself become heavier. It’s slow at first, but gains a startling momentum as you finish the food. It’s good that nothing seems to require initial digestion, since the amount of food present would cause substantial torment inside your already abused gut. The candy-heat is dwindling with each bite of cursed fare you take -- as if this enchantment neutralized the one prior to it.

The last bite is finished. You amble slowly back toward Tavros and survey the damage. You’re less bulky than him, but it’s little comfort to you. It’s difficult to walk normally -- your thighs press insistently against each other, throwing you off balance. The calliope music has stopped.

You help Tavros stand; oddly pleased that your strength is still useful. There is no way he’d be able to rise without your assistance. Typically, his dependence upon you would be distinctly arousing, but you’re too focused on the sudden and disturbing lack of music to pay attention to your inappropriate bulge. 

The stone looks unchanged, but you instantly notice that something is different. The message has disappeared -- all that brown blood evaporating into the air around you. Maybe it’s what you’re breathing.

Tavros uses the chairs to brace himself as he shuffles toward the stone for examination. You join him, pressing your hand to it curiously. It glows a violent shade of blue for one moment, and you hear a balloon pop close to your ear, but see no evidence of one. Tavros places his hand on the circle next, but it doesn’t glow brown. It glows cherry-red. You think of the blister on your finger.

“I think, that it might be, uh, best if we go through your portal. If that’s what it even is.”

You nod numbly. In the far-off distance, you imagine the jarring squeak of clown-shoes. 

“We should hurry.”

You touch the circle again, and it glows the same bright blue. There is no popping balloon. He instinctively places his hands over yours and the stone slab crumbles into a foreboding pit of inky-blue. You motion for him to step into it first, and he does, giving you the most sublime expression of appreciation you’ve ever experienced, before disappearing completely. You shuffle into the portal next, ignoring the irrational fear that it might have closed behind him. Finally, you’re free. No more cotton-candy. No more calliope. No more clown-shoes.

No more neon.


End file.
